The Reaper
by MoonStoneFairy89
Summary: Eric and the night he turns Pam. Short & simple!


_O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,__  
__The Reaper came that day;__  
__'T was an angel visited the green earth,__  
__And took the flowers away._

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, "The Reaper and the Flowers"

He's been lurking in the shadows, listening to the familiar sound of her feet padding softly on the grass. It is the only sound she makes in the night apart from the deep breaths she takes which have become her usual ritual before she crosses over to the house next to her own. On the first breath, she closes her eyes and flexes her fingers in anticipation. One the second, she opens them and brushes off the tiny specks of dirt still clinging to her dress after her escape from her home. On the third breath, she releases her pale blond hair from the tiny white cap- worn only to fool her mother into thinking she was asleep- and lets it falls wildly down her back in waves, another small rebellion on her part. And as usual, her initial apprehension is drowned out by her adrenaline at what she is about to do, he can practically hear the blood rushing through her veins as it releases its pure scent- something that is only available to his immortal senses. Yes, it is the second time this week she has done this and the fourth time this month. She's grown reckless and yet her stealth has reached impressive levels… for a human.

Humans with their everlasting search for love and affection; he's been witness to it for centuries.

But this one- she does not search for either though she'd like to believe so. He can sense it in each breath she takes, each step that leads her to the house close by. She longs for freedom. Something far more elusive than love, something more rewarding for a girl like her.

In less than two hours, she returns. Her fingers twirling the green stem of an unfortunate flower- a rose- slowly wilting under her very touch though she cannot tell with her human eyes. The rose had been plucked early in the morning from the rest of her sisters and made to wait until the evening to serve its purpose without precious water or sun. Now here she was, cradled by the milky white fingers, yearning to reach its final death swiftly before the dawn.

The girl smiles idly, her gaze swallowing the landscape whole as she breathes in the night air. She loves this, more than the boy she sneaks out to visit, more than her fine dresses and ornery. It's late and dark and the shadows are filled with wicked creatures but she lingers, lost in her own bliss. If not him, then someone else will one day claim her. Perhaps the miserable thug that lingers in the street corner, face covered by a mass of oily hair, waiting for her recklessness to lead her to him on a fateful night. Or she will become a victim of her own youthful ignorance, unaware that in a society like hers, her thirst for _life_ will eventually make her an outcast.

He steps out from the shadows, a finger over his lips, as he reveals himself to her for the first time. She takes a step back and the grip she has on the rose increases enough to draw the smallest beads of blood from her fingers. A few small drops fall into the grass, the others begin to trail down her hand as his eyes- and hers- are transfixed on the tiny wounds. When she looks up back up, he is standing before her, her hand in his as he takes the rose from her hand and lets if fall to the floor. Gently, he takes her injured hand to his lips, kissing the back of it as he smiles down at her the way the men that fawn at her do. Still holding her hand, he proceeds to kiss every part assaulted by the spiteful rose, staining his lips red with her blood as he does so. He can already taste her sweetness. Quickly, he darts out his tongue to one of the wounds and lets the finger rest on his lips, enjoying the sight of her wide blue eyes staring back in awe. The tip of her finger is inside his mouth and he feels the familiar sensation of his fangs behind his lips, straining to pierce the delicate skin of this human girl. The taste of her blood lingers at the tip of his tongue and he craves for more, the yearning to finally take her increasing with each small pull he takes from her finger. It is enough for him to _feel_ her and it surprises him that she is anything but afraid. She is just as silent as before, her eyes inspecting him carefully with caution as her breath quivers with the familiar beginnings of lust.

He kisses her- none of those chaste kisses she shared with her beloved. No, this was deeper and more meaningful than that. She responds, tentatively at first, afraid to lose herself in this wild new feeling before she finally succumbs completely. Her body arches up to meet him and she is so very small against him. He takes her waist and lifts her up somewhat to better meet her lips as a small gasp escapes her mouth. She looks down on the ground and then back up to him, marveling at how such a beautiful creature as he can lift her up so effortlessly.

There is no fear in her, only acceptance and excitement for what is to come. She is a wild thing, her fingers curling in the yellow of his hair as her legs try to escape the confines of her dress to feel him closer to her. It is all the invitation he needs before he trails his mouth to the sweetest part of her neck and bites. Warm liquid rushes into his mouth and a few small moans escape hers as the grip she has on his hair begins to weaken along with the beat of her heart.

He drains her. Just barely leaving that last spark that all humans have before death, the spark that allows them to crossover into the darkness if need be. Careful with her, he places her gently on the grass- her only marriage bed with the night sky as witness- and props her head on his bended knee. She is still unaware of the magnitude of the gift he is about to bestow upon her, what she has always truly yearned for. He bites into his wrist and lets the first few drops of his blood fall into her eager lips.

Beside them, the rose continues to wither.


End file.
